Santos
by adriana mota
Summary: Coastlines of summer breeze and proposing scents. Oh, how you clear the troubled mind. The stoned and overthought who've lived the best years out of sight. Oh, how you read all the signs.
1. Chapter 1

_Yesterday..._

* * *

Sprinting, sweating, small feet against cold concrete. Jumping, rushing, turning alleyways until I couldn't be found. It was pathetic, almost, how the day started off. Barely alive with increasing hunger, police sirens with illegal actions.

Though, it wasa ransom that had to be done.

South Santos, Brazil. An unkind place of crime and misery. It was Summer, hot and morebrutal than usual. My family was starving, our standard of living getting the best of the beliefswe used to treasure.

There were a half of dozen rolls under my arms as I knocked over garbage heaps and heaved under pressure. Perspiration dropped down my face as I came to the main road; _Ballé Court._

Cars of all colors were rushing, splashing through puddles from the past night's storm and honking at one another in an attempt to beat traffic.

The people, on the other hand, were of no hurry at all. Instead, crossing the pathways to stores and restaurants galore as they shopped their troubles away. There was laughter everywhere, friends and families gathering under streetlights as the sunset  
/over the island.

Suddenly, I couldhear the voices behind me. Their shouts of profanity making my neck-hairsstand tall and proud. I wiped a hot tear from my face and skimmed foran escape route that seemed almost impossible.

Out of context, the road was my only option as the walkways were halted and the population was

too high to go unannounced.

 _One, two, three..._

And there I was, jaywalking at my own risk and paused in the middle of the road. With wide eyes and a beating heart, I ignored the horns and ignorant glares as the people swarmed by. Crying, still, I glanced back at the angered men.

That's when it hit me; I was dead. A goner. Because, even if I made it home, they would still find me, still get me and kill me and maybe even kill my family because _this was Santos andI was a thief_ and- and no. They wouldn'tkill

me, they'd rape me, maybe even rape my mother and sister and take my father for their own and-

There were headlights smack in my face, a distracted driver behind the wheel of a lavish black vehicle and _dammit_ I really was dead. And I didn't know what was worse, going out as roadkill or leaving my good-for-nothing blood stains on

a ride like _that._

I mumbled my apologies to the poor owner. He'd have the money to buy a new one, right?

Well, no, not exactly. Mainly because he wouldn't have to, breaks packing a wallet, foot stomping the petal ashis eyes connected with mine.

I could see it all; the sympathy and fear and pain plastered all over his flustered face. His tan, chiseled, flustered face.

That's when I realizedthat I probably looked like a deer caught in its own tracks, sapphire blue eyes staring dead into his hazel-green abyss and I- I felt something. It was slow and beautiful and it supplied me with a second of heaven beforeit hit me; _I knew that face. I knew that look._

Though, I couldn't stay to contemplate.I felt the bread under my arms. 

I had to run.


	2. Chapter 2

_gPresent Day..._

* * *

With the numberof neurons greater than the amount of stars in the Milky Way, the human brain is one of the greatest mysteries of mankind. How does it code the magnificent amount of information we contain? Whatmakes a memory a _memory?_ And,well,  
what gives it the power to simulate the future?

Ask yourself, if Iwere to drop a ball at yourfeet, would you remember the sound it made, the color it portrayed, or even the way it morphed as it struck the concrete? Maybe you would. You would if you were paying attention, if you were focused  
in on that one moment, that tiny little second that that rubber sphere emitted it's force to the ground. You would...

But what if I were to ask you something so much more complex, what if- what if i asked you to feel that very ball? Not with your hands, of course, but with your feet. Your muddy, poor, unknowingly gifted feet.

Would you know what to do? How to _play_ without the training or commitment or hard work?

You would. You would if youwere put onto this planet to grace the grass with your magic, to inspire kids to dream, to be more than a man, more than an idol, more than an icon. You would if you were a born-god of the beautiful art.


End file.
